


attention

by synecdochic



Series: attention [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Community: slashfic25, Exhibitionism, Imported, Improv, In Medias Res, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, going commando
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-16
Updated: 2007-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6360031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Jackson's not obvious -- Jackson's never obvious, except when he is, and the things he's obvious about have nothing to do with the things Cam's looking for. But when a man has to suck in air at the thought of you naked under your denim, well, it means you got something to work with here.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	attention

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](https://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/100050.html) 2007-02-16.)
> 
> It started when I read an interview with Ben Browder in which he confessed that he usually didn't bother with underwear, took a detour through a really shit week at work full of boring and repetitive stuff and my running email conversation with ivorygates, and eventually wound up with:
> 
> ivorygates: Yeah, okay, fine, thanks. I *so need* Cam and Daniel bouncing around the inside of my skull this afternoon. Yes, *Daniel.* (*sighs*)
> 
> synecdochic: *eyebrow* Oh, really? And what do *you* have to say about Cam commando in jeans, Daniel?
> 
> ivorygates: Oh, he's pretending that he's paying *absolutely no attention at all* to the idea of Cam half-naked in blue jeans (which is, thank you, an accurate description here) which Cam knows perfectly well, and he's just said something to Daniel about 'now that I've got your attention,' and Daniel has answered with 'I don't think you actually want my attention,' and would you mind whistling the children *home* please? I have other things I need to do here...
> 
> And the next thing you know, I was writing a few hundred words of it in every installment of the ongoing email thread, which was much better than the shit I should have been doing for work. slashfic25 #23: _challenge_.

Cam sits back in the chair, his arm draped up over the back of it, the neck of a beer bottle loose between two fingers. He has no fucking _clue_ what he's doing here, because everything he thinks he knows has been proven to be _painfully fucking wrong_ when dealing with Jackson -- with everyone here, really -- but there's one thing he'll never not be able to spot, and that's when someone wants him.

Jackson wants him. It's in the eyes, in the way his nose flares, just a touch, when Cam shifts his hips forwards and spreads his knees. It's written around the corners and the edges. Jackson's not obvious -- Jackson's never obvious, except when he is, and the things he's obvious about have nothing to do with the things Cam's looking for. But when a man has to suck in air at the thought of you naked under your denim, well, it means you got something to work with here.

"Pretty sure I been trying to get your attention since day one," Cam says.

The corner of Jackson's eye twitches, like Cam just scored a direct hit. He's glad for the beer, and the one before it, and the one before that, because he'd never have the valor to do this sober. He uncurls his arm from the chair and brings the bottle to his lips. Slowly; no good in rushing this, no good in looking like he's too eager. He is, but there's no reason Jackson should know that. And he's had enough of moving too fast and looking like an idiot around these people.

He lets the bottle rest in his lap, when he's done with his sip. Right between his legs. The glass is still cool, sweating in the early summer heat; neither he nor Jackson has much use for air conditioning. The condensation seeps into the fabric, wetting it. He's not going to be able to wear these jeans again without washing them, because they're going to smell like sex and him until it gets cut by soap and water.

"Well," Jackson says, softly. "I suppose you have it. The question is, what do you want to do with it."

Cam presses the base of the bottle against the base of his dick. Nothing showy, just a light pressure, enough to feel nice but keep him from getting too hard. Isn't a done deal, yet, and there's no good in letting his brain write checks to his body before knowing whether or not he's going to be able to cash them.

"Depends on what you had in mind," Cam says. "And why you think I shouldn't want your attention after all."

Jackson laughs. "Please," he says, sounding faintly horrified and a little bit scornful. "You have no idea what you're playing with."

"Nope," Cam says. He keeps Jackson's eyes, pretty sure that Jackson's a little disconcerted at the complete absence of the goofy smile and the aw-shucks attitude he usually puts on for company. Jackson's not company. Not anymore. It's harder than he'd expected to keep from smiling -- it's always been second nature -- but there's nothing amusing about this.

It's hotter than hell in here, and Cam doesn't mean the weather.

Jackson isn't moving, but that's all right; Cam doesn't really want to do much moving either. "Pretty sure you're starting to believe your own press, here," Cam says, soft and lazy. Oh, God, if he's wrong, he's going to have to crawl in a hole and die, but everything he can read from Jackson tells him Jackson's looking for someone to stand up and push right back. 

He sneaks another sip of beer. The bottle's starting to absorb the heat from his body -- no wonder, he feels like he's like to catch on fire -- but it's still cool enough to wet the dryness of his mouth. Jackson's giving him That Look, the one he uses for everyone who tries to tell him what to do. Cam drags the bottle up his inseam, down again, idly enough that it could be half-conscious if every movement wasn't straight out of one of his most well-thumbed fantasies.

"What did _you_ have in mind?" Jackson counters with, calm and pleasant. Negotiator's voice. Jackson's been tense and snappish lately, but this, this is the soft-spoken man everyone told Cam about. Cam wonders whether Jackson even notices the difference.

"No harm in looking," Cam says. He lets his knees fall open a little more, splayed out. On display, not offering up. He's got a feeling Jackson will know the difference.

Jackson raises an eyebrow. "You're assuming I find something worth looking at." 

It could be snide or cutting -- Cam's heard both, many times -- but it's not; it's nothing more than a statement of fact. It sounds like pride, and that's something Cam knows Jackson's got in spades. It sounds like Jackson feels the need to register a protest so he's not thought of as a sure thing.

That's what makes it a sure thing.

"You lemme know if I start to bore you," Cam says. _If_ , not _when_. He takes another sip, and that finishes off the beer. He doesn't have to move much to set the empty down on the floor, but he makes a show of it anyway, making one long reach over the arm of the chair and winding up slouched down even further in its embrace. 

The heel of his palm winds up on his upper thigh. Jackson's eyes flicker down to it, then back up to meet his. Cam lets himself smile now, just a little quirk of the corners of his lips. 

He's never gotten off on doing this in front of someone else. Just not his thing. But he knows better than to try and touch Jackson unless Jackson wants to be touched, and Jackson's the kind of guy you gotta show what's on offer, first. Give him a chance to weigh the pros and cons, make up his mind. So Cam runs the pad of his thumb along the top of his thigh, skin so sensitized it's like he can feel every damn line of the fabric. He's had these jeans for a good long time, and they'd be too tight for him to fit into now if they weren't so threadbare they've loosened up a size or two. They're going to wear out, soon: in the crotch, at the knees, through the inseam. But they're tight enough that he knows Jackson can see the curve of his dick beneath them, and worn enough that he knows he's putting on a decent show.

His breath is starting to get raspy; he can hear it. There's a thrill in knowing you're about to cross the line from subtle to blatant, about to do something that can't be misinterpreted or explained away. 

He slides his hand along his jeans, watching Jackson's eyes the whole damn time, and palms his dick through the denim like he's got all the time in the world.

Jackson shifts his weight. So subtly it might be a coincidence, one hip going up, the other hip going down, but Cam's got those parts too and he knows damn well Jackson's trying to relieve the pressure of his dick suddenly taking up too much room in his own jeans. 

"Not boring, no," Jackson says. Just a bare breath of voice, but Cam can't take his eyes off the way Jackson's lips round, the way his tongue flickers at his lips after he's done. His voice is perfectly even. Somehow, that's hotter than if it hadn't been.

"Good. Hate to bore you," Cam says. He can feel his eyes wanting to lid shut, but he doesn't let them; he wants to watch the reactions he's getting. He works his hand up the length of his fly, squeezing, shifting, careful to keep the metal of the zipper from anywhere it shouldn't go. It's not the first time he's jerked off in these jeans, and it's not likely to be the last.

"Not boring," Jackson repeats, and shifts his weight again. Cam counts it as a victory.

Enough of a victory that he can push a little, at least; Jackson hasn't run screaming yet, hasn't said something snide or cutting, hasn't reached out with word or hand to stop him. Jackson's just watching, his head tipped slightly to one side, studying Cam as though he's uncertain just how far Cam's going to take this and wants to feed Cam enough rope to hang himself.

Well, hanged for a sheep and all that, so there's no point in pretending he's doing anything other than what he's doing. "So what else wouldn't bore you?" he asks. It's the closest thing to a proposition he knows Jackson'll take from him.

It's like it breaks the spell, though, and Jackson reaches down to pick his own beer -- only his second, and still mostly full -- off the floor. "Oh, so many things," he says, mildly. "The newest issue of _The American Journal of Archaeology_. The abandoned Ancient temple from P3X-711. Everything the Atlantis expedition sends back in their databursts." He pauses long enough to take a sip from his beer. In the exact same tone, without losing one inch of that slightly amused intent expression, he adds, as he puts the beer back down, "Finding out whether you intend to unzip those pants or not."

Cam bites his lip -- he can't help it; thinking and doing are two different things entirely, and hearing Jackson say that in his very best studying-the-natives voice brings this one step closer to doing. For a second he wants to say _why don't you come over here and do it for me_ , but there's no way to make something like that come out not sounding stupid, and he doesn't think Jackson would take him up on it anyway.

Instead, he just flicks open the button with one thumb; it's so well-worn, after years of hard use, that he doesn't even need both hands. Jackson's eyes flicker again, the faintest tensing of the muscles beneath, like he's trying to narrow his focus down to nothing more. Cam's still watching Jackson's eyes, but he can see, just at the very edge of his field of vision, that Jackson's fingertips are shifting back and forth on his knee as though he's trying to decide if they itch to touch enough to want to move them.

"You got a problem with this, you lemme know right now," Cam says. His own personal sense of honor requires him to make the offer of an easy out, of a graceful retreat. Because yeah, he wants Jackson off-balance, wants to surprise him, maybe even shock him a little. But he doesn't want to make Jackson _uncomfortable_. 

"If I have a problem," Jackson says, and oh, _God_ , so that's what Jackson sounds like when he's turned on; it's there, finally, in the long slow purr and rumble of Jackson's tone -- "you'll be the first to know about it."

That's the closest Cam's going to get to permission. 

The denim's rough against the back of his hand as he slides it down into the waistband; the zipper bites into the backs of his knuckles as he works it downward, by pushing out from the inside, without having to even pull on the tab. There's just enough room that he's not touching his dick, not quite: his dick can can feel the heat coming off his palm just as intensely as his hand can feel the heat coming off his dick. Just as intensely as his skin can feel the heat coming off Jackson's eyes. 

He doesn't look down -- he knows what's there. He watches Jackson instead. That's new and interesting. The way Jackson's tongue glides over his lips, the way Jackson's pupils are blown wide and luminous, the way Jackson's hips rise, fractionally, when Cam gets the zipper down to the bottom and strokes his hand up to pull his dick free. Like Jackson's imagining what Cam's hand might feel like on his own dick, and for all Cam knows he might very well be. But he's not going to think about that, because that's not what this is about. This is about showing Jackson the goods on offer, and from everything he can see, Jackson's thinking about making a bid.

So: think instead about the swell he can see behind Jackson's jeans, the way Jackson's fingers are fluttering at his knee, the way those hands would feel on his own skin. Would Jackson touch him like _this_ , maybe? (Long, slow stroke, palm rough, fingers gentle, one hint shy of too much pressure but somehow just on the right side of the line.) Like _this_? (Circle of thumb and forefinger, wrapped just behind the head of his cock, fractional shifts rocking over the one spot he likes best.) Or like _this_ , maybe, fingertips only, tracing small but firm circles of shifting skin and powerful nerves, until his back starts to arch with it and he has to bite down against a noise that's more moan than exhale.

He tries all of them, watching for a reaction from behind slitted eyes, watching to see what makes Jackson breathe harder, grow more still. Jackson's not a moaner, or a squirmer. He just gets silent and intent, watching, _waiting_ , and if Cam wasn't so damn good at noticing the tiny cues he'd be driving himself mad with wondering if Jackson was getting turned on or if he was running declensions in his head. 

"Tell me what you're thinking about," Jackson says. His voice is loud in the silence of the room.

Cam's dimly aware that he should be mortified right about now, but Jackson's looking at him with the concentration he usually reserves for dead languages and old bones and the blood flow's pretty solidly going to little head. "Whether or not you're thinking about touching," he says. He doesn't stop touching himself to talk. 

"Oh, I assure you," Jackson says, low and dark and dangerous, "I am." 

Cam breathes out one long breath -- yeah, that's relief, the relief of tension he didn't even know he was holding, the last little bit of what-if, and that means he's _won_ , he's scored enough points in this mysterious not-game they're not playing to have the upper hand for once. For _once_. But his momma always taught him to be a gracious winner -- and oh, God, not thinking about her right now, not if he doesn't want to go to _hell_ \-- and he knows enough to know that the way to win gracefully with Jackson is to pretend like you're rolling over and showing your belly.

He's not going to think of rolling over and of Jackson in the same thought, either. Not quite yet. Mostly because he wants to draw this out, and if he starts thinking about Jackson's weight bearing down on him, Jackson's breath hot against his neck, the warmth of Jackson's skin spread out over his back, he's not going to last long at all.

Still. He'd like to think Jackson's going just as quietly insane, so he says, "Wondering if someday you'd like to do more'n touch." Draws his palm back up his dick -- it's the stroke he likes best when he's just settling into it, when he's thinking about committing to the plan but not quite sure of the execution yet. 

And Jackson laughs. Actually laughs, the you-have-just-said-something-so-stupid-I'm-surprised-you-haven't-been-hit-by-lightning variant, and shakes his head. "I really can't believe you," he says. Hooks one knee up over the arm of the chair, slouching -- _slouching_! -- in a way Cam thinks would look more at home in his own skin. And Cam's hand stops moving, because that's Jackson -- easy, fluid, boneless -- reaching down and undoing his own fly, and he has to stop and wonder what the hell Jackson's got in mind.

But Jackson isn't doing anything else, just resting his hand there, fingertips grazing the arch of his dick under the thin material of his boxers. And Cam's heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and his mouth is dry, but he says "Believe what?" anyway.

"That you could possibly think anyone wouldn't." It should be a compliment, but delivered in that dry, arch tone, it's somehow not. Jackson didn't strike him as the boxers type, Cam thinks, and then has to stifle a laugh, because -- seriously, now is _not the time_. Jackson smiles, pure like mountain water, and says, "Modesty doesn't become you."

And apparently Jackson wants to have a fucking conversation, while Cam's got his dick hanging out of his pants, which really shoudn't surprise him anywhere near how much it does. "Yeah?" he says, and then realizes. Jackson might have conceded the first round, but this is him starting round two, and Cam's not going to lose this one either. Deliberately, he lifts his palm to his mouth, cocks his head to lick a stripe. Grips his dick again, more firmly this time, and is proud he can manage to keep his voice even. "So, you been thinking about touching for a long time?"

"Months," Jackson says, and the syllable ends in a filthy hiss. "But you knew that. You're a smart boy."

And Jackson's a condescending little prick sometimes, but Cam knew that, too. "Too bad you never said anything," he says. Then lets his head drop back against the chair and closes his eyes.

It takes a second until he can be sure whether or not having Jackson watching -- knowing that Jackson's watching, knowing that every flick of wrist and every catch of breath is being measured against someone else's fantasies -- is going to make this easier or harder, but if he concentrates enough, listens fiercely enough, he can hear the hitch in Jackson's breathing. And something else, the syncopation of every single wet sound of his own hand against his own cock being echoed, so closely he'd have to be listening for it, somewhere else. Across the room.

Jackson's jerking off, watching him jerk off, and that knowledge goes right down into Cam's bones and makes his toes curl. He's imagining it, building it up behind his eyes, savoring every last nuance, and knowing that all he'd have to do would be to open his eyes to see how accurate he is. But opening his eyes would be admitting defeat, and he's not going to do that.

And after a few minutes, he's so deep in his own head, in his own fantasies, that he doesn't even _want_ to look. In his mind's eye, Jackson's got his eyes near-shut, his own head thrown back, his hand a frantic blur on his dick, teeth wedged in his lower lip to keep from crying out. One foot planted on the floor, the other knee straining against the arm of the chair, his hips arching into each touch (like Cam's are, thrusting his dick into his hand, like he would into Jackson's mouth or Jackson's ass). In his imagination, Jackson's got one hand splayed across his chest, pinching at his nipples (and Cam's own are aching with the thought of it, until he brings his own hand up and scrapes his nails against them through the thin fabric of his shirt). 

He comes to the thought of Jackson's eyes on him, the knowledge that now at least Jackson _knows_ , the thrill of never knowing what the _fuck_ Jackson is going to do next. He comes to the knowledge that Jackson wants him, that Jackson's been thinking about him, that maybe Jackson's been jerking off and fantasizing about him as much as he has about Jackson. 

It takes him a long time to catch his breath after, and he still doesn't open his eyes. He's _really_ going to have to wash these jeans.

When he's ready, when the need to know how accurate his mental picture was after all finally grows too strong to ignore, when he's got some chance of maybe _possibly_ holding his own in the next round of this little game, he finally opens his eyes. To find the chair across from him -- 

Empty. 

_Fuck_. Fucking shit _hell_ , and he feels like an _idiot_ , and doesn't it just fucking go to _show_.

"Cameron." It takes him a second to recognize Jackson's voice. He doesn't hear his Christian name from those lips very often. He swallows once, coughs -- his throat's raspy and scratchy, his breath dry; he must have been making noise, and didn't even realize it -- and turns his head.

Jackson's leaning against the wall of the hallway, perfectly in sight of the chair Cam's in. Arms crossed, hair mussed, glasses missing. His shirt's gone, and his fly is open, and his boxers have been pushed aside, and his dick's still hard. The effect is half scorching hot and half ridiculous. 

Jackson waits until he knows Cam's seen him, and then, without saying a word, tips his head in salute -- _second round to you_ \-- and turns his back. Cam watches as he walks down the hallway; the sight-lines occlude him fast enough, but the only thing back there is the bedroom and that's gotta be where he's going.

Cam drops his head back against the chair and can't help the smile. He knows enough to recognize it as a thrown gauntlet -- _best three out of five_ \-- and he's gonna be able to stand up and follow any damn minute now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Attuned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366568) by [ivorygates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates), [synecdochic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic)




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